


the sun rises like this heart up my throat

by redberrysoda



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Don't Examine This Too Closely, Excessive use of italics, M/M, Mutual Pining, im not creative enough for metaphors but i do have a lot of feelings so there's that, no beta we die like men, there's pictures too!! that's exciting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 00:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redberrysoda/pseuds/redberrysoda
Summary: akaashi falls but not in the poetic nor in the romantic sort of way
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Comments: 53
Kudos: 517





	the sun rises like this heart up my throat

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this fic is a continuation of my comics series 'drink responsibly' on twitter.

Keiji tastes something bitter at the roof of his mouth.

He smacks his lips together —not liking the taste of his mouth from not being able to brush his teeth last night, most likely— as he groggily pushes himself up on his forearms to sit up straight, a pillow clutched loosely across his chest. Keiji can feel the outset of a painful headache with a dull throb on either side of his temples but the feeling is quickly overshadowed by fragments of a dream he had last night. He can distinctly recall Osamu being part of it. The smell of cotton and the warmth of fresh laundry encompassing him. Hugging him.

He rubs at his nose, sniffing, blinking away the last bits of sleep blurring his vision. His eyes adjusting to the blurriness he’s used to.

“What a weird dream,” Keiji mumbles to himself, letting the pillow drop soundlessly beside him. He flips the covers over his legs to find that he is still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

He stares at his legs —still covered in yesterday’s jeans and foot socks— a few moments more until he remembers that he went drinking last night with Bokuto, Kuroo and, with a start, Keiji remembers one Osamu Miya being part of their group that night.

He was the reason why they got together that night, after all.

Bokuto and Kuroo wanting to meet Keiji’s…

_Keiji’s what?_

Keiji swings his legs over the side of the bed, frantic. The motion trying to shake the thought away from his subconscious and keeping it repressed for as long as his mind can hold it down.

He lets the soles of his feet glide across the— not his floor?

He quickly lifts his leg up off of Osamu. The hands bracing the entirety of his sudden weight unceremoniously slip over the covers of his bed, sending him tumbling backwards and off the bed with a comical thud. Keiji quickly rights himself, bumping his head on his desk in the process. He peeks up over his bed to check if the absolute fool he’s made of himself woke his guest up.

Thankfully, all it did was make Osamu burrow further into his _kakebuton_ , mumbling something low Keiji can’t hear.

_‘He’s a heavy sleeper’_ , his brain uselessly supplies, letting out a relieved sigh that was —to Keiji’s detriment— bordering fond.

Then, it hits Akaashi like a freight train. Memories of last night that felt like a dream burn at the back of his eyes, heat creeping up at his nape as each and every stunt his drunk self pulled surfaces… _mocking him._

Slowly, quietly, he stands from where he was pathetically crouched on the wooden floor of his bedroom, careful not to hit his desk this time as he does so, unless he wanted to make a bigger fool of himself already. Keiji is very much aware that Osamu is soundly asleep, but having him this close —after _everything—_ it’s like Osasmu still sees him behind closed eyelids. Akaashi does not know how to feel about this so he flees. Quietly.

He takes his glasses from his desk, his knuckles brushing against a glass of water that normally isn’t there every morning and beside it, a bright yellow sticky note that also isn’t normally there every morning.

He gingerly puts on his glasses, still afraid that the slightest of broad movements would wake his guest up, and reads the note.

A soft chuckle passes through his lips before he can stop himself. Why would he even _want_ to stop himself to? Keiji thinks. This man, the man sleeping on his floor that normally _isn’t_ supposed to be there every morning, is just absurd.

_‘Absurd in the most charming and funny way’,_ Keiji can’t help but add, his finger lightly tracing the doodled sad face crudely drawn at the end of the apology. He lets himself smile, pocketing the note and picking up the glass of water Osamu had put for him. He quickly tiptoes towards his bedroom door, careful not to let any of the water spill from the glass.

He’s half-way out the door before he looks back, peering over at the tuft of black hair buried under the puffy white quilt. He softly closes the door before he could stare a second longer. The door closes with a soft click.

“What am i doing?” Keiji wonders, his words softly brushing against the wood of his bedroom door.

He presses his back against it and slowly slides down the length of it like the protagonist of a romantic novel that he is. He takes a small sip from the glass of water he still had clutched between his hands before unsteadily placing it on the floor beside him.

Heat blossoms across his cheeks freely. Memories of last night —and moments leading to last night— coming to the forefront of his brain, unbidden. He groans in between his knees, his hands covering his stubbornly blushing face.

_“Why?”_ , he asks his apartment, _“Why wasn’t Bokuto-san the one who helped me home?”_

Hell, Keiji would have preferred Kuroo too. _Anyone_ but the man who is currently sleeping on his spare futon, on the floor, by his bed.

He’s _seen_ photos, Keiji knows what his drunk self is capable of and the thought of Osamu being the recipient of… _of whatever it is that happens to him when he’s drunk,_ makes him break into a cold sweat, the red of his cheeks getting redder, his insides where he holds his dignity twisting into bundles he can’t unknot unless Osamu stops looking at him the way he does.

A flicker of dark gray, glinting silver, staring intently into his eyes flash across the black of his cupped palms, uninvited.

He doesn’t understand how Osamu can make him feel conscious like this. Making Keiji take note of the proximity they have between each other, the amount of skin he lets Osamu touch before he holds his breath, the seconds his eyes linger on any part of him until he feels like he’s been caught.

If Bokuto was the one he kissed on the cheek, or if Kuroo was the one who laid him on his bed and held him until he fell asleep, would he have been as embarrassed as he was now?

Keiji takes a deep breath, straightening himself as he lets out a steady exhale.

The answer is obvious. Almost glaring. A bright red _of course not_ in boldface.

There is an expectation there that crawls up Keiji’s arms like electricity that neither he nor Osamu address but hangs so thickly in the space they’ve set between them.

Or, _perhaps_...

Osamu _has_ addressed it and his answer was as clear and as steady as the hand on his waist, the fingers in his hair, the erratic beating of Osamu’s heart that lulled Keiji to sleep in his arms.

The man asleep on his spare futon, making sure he got home safe, was revealing of his intentions enough. Revealing of his _affections_ enough. So brazenly and shamelessly revealing that it eats akaashi whole. Frozen and unable to think of a way to reciprocate. Unable to comprehend or believe the length Osamu chose to go through to be here for him.

All that’s left, Keiji thinks, is Osamu waiting on Keiji’s answer. An answer that’s as clear and as steady as Osamu’s.

Akaashi takes the yellow sticky note from his back pocket, blue eyes tracing over the lines of the sad face Osamu hastily drew for Keiji to express just how regretful he is for not leaving him painkillers to relieve his headache in the morning. Keiji doesn’t try to stop himself from letting out a laugh this time. A quiet one, but loud enough for his pothos plant sitting atop his bookshelf to hear.

Keiji decides that it’s time to get up off the floor, taking the glass of water with him to his kitchenette. He neatly folds the note, pocketing it safely in the side pocket of his jeans.

“Okay, Keiji.” He whispers, brows set, heart determined as he remembers it being atop a national stadium.

“Time to make the best damn breakfast you’ve ever made.”

**Author's Note:**

> there's just a lot going on and i dont think i have it in myself to illustrate the entirety of this part. thanks for reading the whole thing!!


End file.
